


you can fall if you want to (it’s just a matter of how far)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant's running constant surveillance on the Playground. It pays off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can fall if you want to (it’s just a matter of how far)

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I came so close to catching up on replying to comments, and then I got lazy again. So sorry; I'll get on that ASAP, I promise.
> 
> This was supposed to be a funny little drabble, then it went and developed PLOT, and 5400 words later, here we are. In case y'all were wondering, I am not even a little bit in control here.
> 
> Title from Ellie Goulding's _Wish I Stayed_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Hey, look! The love of my life is back!”

The excited exclamation from the room he’s passing stops Grant in his tracks. No one on surveillance duty—one of the most boring jobs in the business—should sound that happy. The agents following him pause uncertainly, but he motions for silence before they can speak; he wants to hear more before he decides what to do.

“Oh, please. You don’t love her, you love her legs.”

“Can you blame him? Those are some damn fine legs.”

Yeah. They’re having too much fun.

He checks the room number; this is the room surveilling the Playground, which means there aren’t all that many options for the _her_ in question—and none of them leave him very impressed. There are cameras in every room at the Playground, but mostly as a precaution; his focus is on the common areas and offices. If his guys are spying in the women’s showers or something, he is going to be _very_ annoyed.

Markham, Aldridge, and Repin are still hanging back awkwardly, and he waves them on.

“Take care of the Gardner issue,” he orders. “I’ll catch up.”

“Yes, sir,” is, as expected, the response, and he enters the surveillance room silently.

The three men inside don’t notice him; they’re still focused on the legs of whichever of the Playground’s women they’re admiring. He frowns.

Sloppy.

“Come on,” the first speaker—Lorenzo, Grant remembers, pulling up his mental copy of the guy’s file—says to the bank of monitors in front of him. “Turn a little, baby, let me get a better view.”

Grant takes a glance at the monitors. They’re not watching the women’s showers—everyone on screen is fully dressed—but it turns out the woman they’re panting over is Simmons.

And that’s just unacceptable.

Sure, he can admit she looks good. She’s wearing a skirt, which he’s only seen her do once before (she, Fitz, and Skye went clubbing once in Madrid; Grant was planning on letting himself get dragged along but had to refuse after seeing the outfit she was wearing, because he was already making a play for Skye and it would’ve been totally ruined if he spent the night putting his hands all over Skye’s best friend and her frankly unbelievable body), and her legs look amazing.

But that’s no reason for his men—who are _on duty_ —to be drooling over her like a bunch of frat boys. She’s a member of Grant’s team, and he doesn’t appreciate them looking at her like that. He especially doesn’t appreciate them using his resources to do it.

“Come on, baby,” Lorenzo says, “Just a little to the—”

He breaks off into a shout as Grant fists his hand in his hair and yanks him to his feet. The other two on monitors—Parsons and Guerrero—spring to their feet at once, and watching them go stark white as they recognize him is _almost_ enough to make him smile.

“Sir!” Parsons says, saluting. Lorenzo immediately stops fighting.

“What can we do for you, sir?” Guerrero asks.

Grant raises an eyebrow at them, then looks pointedly at the abandoned monitors. They both resume their seats without a word, leaving Lorenzo to his fate.

Grant lets go of his hair, but only long enough to wrap a hand around his throat and lift him off his feet.

“Do you know who that is, Lorenzo?” he asks.

“S-sir—”

“That’s Jemma Simmons,” he says. “She’s one of the smartest women on the planet, and she’s worth, oh…” He pauses and tilts his head, considering. “At _least_ three dozen of any one of you. So if I were _you_?” He tightens his hold; Lorenzo chokes. “I wouldn’t disrespect her in my hearing.”

“No, sir,” Lorenzo wheezes. “It won’t h-happen again, sir.”

“Sir!” Guerrero says suddenly, and Grant sighs.

“I’m a little busy here, Guerrero,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

“No, sir—I mean, yes, sir—I mean.” Guerrero gestures desperately at his screen. “I think you’re gonna want to see this, sir.”

Grant’s about to comment on the likelihood of Guerrero thinking _anything_ when his eyes catch on what he’s talking about: Simmons is alone in a room with one of her team’s new additions, and she’s holding a gun—a real gun, not an ICER—on him.

“Turn the sound up,” he orders, and Guerrero scrambles to obey.

“—better than this, Mack,” Simmons is saying tearfully. “I really did.”

“Simmons,” Mack says, voiced pitched to be soothing. “Calm down. I understand where you’re coming from, but you know we can’t—”

“No,” she snaps. “No, I don’t know! What I know is that the only thing we’ve got to go on is the word of a _psychopath_ who wanted to _wipe out humanity_ , and frankly, I don’t consider her a credible source!”

The door creaks as Markham enters the room, but—being a good deal smarter than any of the idiots on surveillance—has the sense to keep his mouth shut when he sees the way Grant’s attention is fixed on the monitors.

“We can’t risk it, Simmons,” Mack says.

“Yes, we can,” she disagrees. “We can risk anything. _I_ will risk anything, do anything—I’ll make a deal with the devil himself, if I must, but you’re not stopping me from taking the artifact.”

Mack gives her an incredulous look and motions behind him, to—is that a rock? It looks like a rock. A giant, floating rock in a glass box.

SHIELD has weird problems. Grant is not sad to be rid of them.

He’s read the surveillance reports, of course; he knows SHIELD’s been guarding a rock. He was just picturing something a little…smaller. It’s not like he can personally watch all of the footage—the Playground isn’t the only location he’s monitoring, and 24/7 surveillance generates a hell of a lot of video—but maybe he should start requiring that screenshots of items of interest be included in reports.

Something to think about later.

For the moment, Mack is speaking, “Yeah? And how are you gonna get it out of here?”

One of Parsons’ monitors has an angle on Simmons’ face, which is miserable as she looks at the rock. She obviously realizes that Mack’s got a point; that thing is twice her size, and there’s no way she can carry it out of the Playground.

“Look, just put the gun away,” he continues. “And when the Director gets back, we’ll talk about doing some more scans, okay?” He takes a step towards her. “I want the same thing you want, Simmons.”

“No,” Simmons says, without looking away from the rock. “You don’t. You’ve made that very clear.”

And then, before Mack can take another step, she pulls the trigger.

Grant is, honestly, stunned as he watches Mack collapse. Her attacking him, he gets—he doesn’t _appreciate_ it, but he gets it. They’re technically enemies, after all.

But shooting a member of her own team? What the hell is going on with her?

“I’m sorry,” she says, tucking the gun into her jacket pocket. “But I can’t allow Coulson to catch me here.” She looks down at Mack, mouth tight. “And if you’re not with me, you’re against me.”

She steps over him and approaches the box. It brings her in range of another camera, one close enough to show the tears in her eyes as she lays a hand against the glass enclosure.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and speaking to the rock, she sounds a hell of a lot more sincere than she did speaking to Mack. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise. I just need a little more time.” She presses her fingers to her lips and then returns them to the glass. “Just a little bit longer.”

Mack is still alive, but he’s fading fast, and he chokes out Simmons’ name. She ignores him.

“I’ll be back,” she promises the rock, and then she flees.

Okay, so Simmons is crazy. That’s…new. But she’s also desperate, and Grant knows exactly what to do with _that_.

“Follow her on the external cameras,” he orders, dropping Lorenzo. (He collapses to the ground, coughing.) “I want to know where she goes.”

Parsons’ affirmative “Sir!” gets lost under Markham’s inquisitive version.

“Sir,” Markham repeats, following him out of the room. “What are you going to do?”

“You heard her, Markham,” Grant says. “She’ll make a deal with the devil himself to get what she wants, and last I checked, as far as Simmons is concerned? That’s me.”

There’s a reason Markham is one of Grant’s favorites; he catches on pretty quick. “You’re going to bring her in on the Mykonos project?”

“If all goes well, I’ll bring her in on a lot more than that,” he says. He checks his watch as they enter the elevator. “Did you get Gardner handled?”

“Yes, sir,” Markham says. “Repin got what she needed from him. He won’t be a problem any longer.”

“Good.” He hits the button for the third floor; there are a few things he needs to take care of before he tracks down Simmons. “Prepare a room for Lorenzo in sub-basement B. I’ll be taking him down tomorrow; he needs to learn some manners.”

Markham cringes very slightly. “Yes, sir.”

The doors open as the elevator comes to a stop, and Grant steps out. “Tell those morons in surveillance to contact me the moment Simmons settles in somewhere, then get back to 15. We’re gonna have a lot of work to do soon.”

\---

Simmons doesn’t actually _settle_ anywhere—whether because she doesn’t have anywhere to go or because she just doesn’t want to is anyone’s guess—but she eventually ends up in a public park about thirty miles away from the Playground, and that seems as good a place to talk to her as any.

It’s mid-morning on a weekday, so the park is empty except for Simmons. She’s sitting on a bench near the swings, attention fixed on the teddy bear (of all things) she’s holding, and even though he makes sure not to walk quietly, she doesn’t look up as he approaches.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks.

That _does_ get her to look up, but only for a second, and she doesn’t look anywhere near as frightened or angry as he might’ve expected.

“Go ahead,” she offers, listlessly, and returns her attention to the bear.

Seriously. A teddy bear. He has _no idea_ what’s going on with her.

“Thanks,” he says, and sits next to her—closer than is strictly polite, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “So. Bad day?”

“How did you guess?” she asks dryly.

“I’m monitoring the Playground,” he says. There’s no harm in the confession; by the end of this conversation, Simmons will either be working with him or she’ll be coming back to base with him as his prisoner. Either way, she won’t be spilling the beans to Coulson. “I saw you shoot the new guy—the big one, what’s his name?”

He knows Mack’s name, of course. He’s had the Playground under constant surveillance for months, he knows everyone’s name—not to mention the fact he just heard her address the guy on camera not four hours ago. But he wants to hear how she sounds saying it.

“Mack,” she says softly. There’s a bit of regret there—a guilty undertone—but not much.

Interesting.

“Mack,” he echoes. “Why’d you shoot Mack, Simmons?”

She looks down at the bear she’s holding, turning it over thoughtfully. “Do you remember Malta?”

Something about the expression she’s wearing tells him that isn’t as off-topic as it sounds, so he rolls with the change of subject.

“Yeah.”

“You told me…” She swallows. “You told me that there are things worse than death.”

“My cover had no idea what to do with a crying woman,” he says, giving an exaggerated wince. Although honestly, he did feel a little bad about that at the time—coming across Simmons crying over her dead professor in the cargo hold at three in the morning, he would’ve liked to offer real comfort. 

But the cover had to come first.

“Yes.” She smiles, just a little. “You put on a very convincing show of panic.”

“Thank you,” he says graciously, and she actually laughs.

It’s genuine laughter, he can tell that much, but it’s also pretty close to a sob. He still has no idea what’s going on here, but whatever it is, she’s badly shaken and in way over her head.

Although, really, seeing her shoot one of her own teammates tipped him off to that pretty well.

“Come on, Simmons,” he says, and—after a quick evaluation of her expression—lays his arm along the back of the bench. It’s not a hug, not any kind of intimate move, but it’s right on the edge of it. And her response—leaning back against it instead of away—is telling. “What’s going on? What’s worse than death?”

Her face crumbles. “Fitz.”

“What?”

“I lost Fitz,” she says. The bear tumbles out of her hands, but she doesn’t pay it any mind. She raises one hand to press her knuckles to her lips, obviously struggling with tears. “I have to—I have to get him back.”

“Okay, wait,” he says. “What? Lost him how?”

He knows Fitz hasn’t been seen at the Playground in months, of course, but neither has she. He assumed that they’d gone somewhere together. If she left because Fitz died…

“The artifact,” she says, tremulous.

He frowns. “You mean that big rock?”

“Yes, that.” She takes a deep breath. “It ate him.”

…What?

“It _what_?” he asks.

“It ate him,” she repeats. “It swallowed him whole. It—it melted, engulfed him, and then solidified.” Her voice breaks. “I was only gone for _five minutes_. I left to get my mobile and when I came back, he was—”

She’s crying too hard to finish her sentence, and Grant stares at her.

It’s not the weirdest thing he’s ever heard, but he still has to take a second to adjust to the news—and then another second to decide how to react.

Comfort is what he lands on. He lets his arm fall off the bench to rest across her shoulders instead, and—when she doesn’t protest that—slides a little closer. She turns into his side, pressing her face to his shoulder, and he bites back a smile as she sobs.

He’s got her.

Her tears don’t last long, but while they do, he soothes her through them, rubbing her back and murmuring comforting nothings. She doesn’t shove him away, doesn’t tense when he wraps his other arm around her—doesn’t even flinch when he cups the back of her neck, even though he could so easily break it.

She’s perfectly happy to accept comfort from him.

He can definitely work with this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, once her crying’s done. She sits back, swiping at her face with one hand, and doesn’t say anything against the arm he keeps around her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He squeezes her shoulder, just a little. “And I’m sorry about Fitz. Is there any way to get him back?”

Her lips thin. Her hands fist on her thighs. For a second, he thinks she’s remembered exactly who she’s talking to—that he’s about to lose the ground he just gained—but the look she gives him is full of despair, not hate.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Coulson won’t—won’t let me study the artifact.”

“He _what_?” Grant asks; he doesn’t have to feign his shock. “Why not?”

Her mouth twists bitterly. “The only intelligence we have on the artifact—from, it must be said, a _very_ unreliable source—indicates that it’s a weapon meant for use against—against people like Skye.”

Ah. Now it makes sense.

“And Coulson won’t risk Skye,” he says. “Not even to save Fitz.”

“No. Apparently not.”

“So…” He’s still missing some pieces. “How did this lead to you shooting Mack?”

“I thought I could count on him for help,” she says. “He and Fitz are such good friends—I thought he’d be happy to help me get the artifact out of the Playground.” She scoffs. “I should have known better.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He tightens his arm around her shoulder as the breath shudders out of her. “If you study the rock, you think you can figure it out? Get him back?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what it did to him. But I have to try.”

“Of course you do,” he agrees. “It’s awful of Coulson to expect you not to—to ask you to just abandon Fitz.”

“They’ve all just given up,” she says. “Left him for dead.”

He shakes his head sadly. “After everything he’s done for them.”

Simmons takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, and scoots forward, away from his arm. He lets go of her, worried he might have pushed it too far, but all she does is lean down to pick up the teddy bear. She brushes the dirt off of it, inspects it for more, and then settles it in her lap, hands folded over its middle.

“What do you want?” she asks.

For a second he thinks she might be talking to the bear—she’s holding on to it like it’s a kid, not a stuffed animal, and it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s seen her do today—but then she pins him with an expectant look, and he realizes the question is for him.

“What do you mean?” he evades.

“We both know you don’t care about Fitz,” she says. “You’re here to manipulate me into doing something in exchange for your assistance with the artifact. I’m willing to negotiate. So, what do you want?”

He guesses it was too much to hope that she might fall for the concerned friend act; as he told Lorenzo a few hours ago, she _is_ one of the smartest women on the planet, and he’s burned that bridge pretty thoroughly.

Still, though. She let him comfort her. She’s still sitting thigh-to-thigh with him. And she says she’s willing to negotiate.

All in all, things aren’t looking too bad.

(She’s leaving with him either way, but he’d really prefer it if she came willingly.)

“I want you to work for me,” he says. “I have a whole team of scientists, but none of them are on your level. You can head them up, give them some direction.”

“Give them _your_ direction, you mean,” she corrects.

“Well, yeah.”

She looks down at the bear, toying with one of its ears. “And in return, you’ll help me get the artifact out of the Playground?”

“I’ll get it set up in a lab for you,” he says. “You can study it to your heart’s content. No time limit, no budget—just you and that creepy rock until you figure out how to make it give Fitz back.”

Simmons hums thoughtfully, turning the bear over in her lap to stare into its eyes like she’s waiting for advice.

“It sounds good,” she decides. “What’s the catch?”

“What makes you think there’s a catch?” he asks, and the look he gets for it is so unimpressed that he has to laugh.

“You always have another play,” she says. “And I’d really prefer to know it up front. So, what is it this time?”

She wants sincerity right now—wants him to be blunt and straightforward—which means it’s a good moment for eye contact. He turns to face her fully, drawing one leg up and laying his arm along the back of the bench again, and she sets aside the bear and follows suit almost at once—although, in deference to her skirt, she draws both of her legs up under her.

“My other play,” he says. “Is for you.”

“Me?” Her eyebrows scrunch together. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it’s very simple,” he says. “I want you.”

Simmons stares at him for a long minute.

“You want me,” she echoes.

“Yep.”

“And you were going to manipulate me to make it happen?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I’m not a good man. You know that.”

She frowns a little as she mulls that over, and something about the expression makes it impossible to resist the urge to touch her. Some of her hair has come loose from her ponytail; he reaches out and tucks it behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her jaw.

She doesn’t move away.

“I’m not gonna force you into anything,” he promises, letting his hand drop to her thigh. “If all you want is the lab, that’s fine. We’ll stay professional. But you wanted to know my other play, and that’s it: I want to win you over. I want you at my side.” He smiles slowly and watches, satisfied, as her breath catches. “And in my bed.”

She swallows. “You never wanted me before.”

“I’ve always wanted you,” he corrects.

“Oh, please,” she says. “Skye—”

“Skye was a strategic choice that turned into an unfortunate fixation,” he interrupts. “May was a strategic choice that turned out to be a miscalculation.” He squeezes her thigh. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I made a move on both of them, but not you?”

“I…” she frowns. “I assumed you weren’t interested.”

“I was _too_ interested,” he says. “I wanted you too much.”

She rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does,” he says. “The man I was then, that wasn’t me. He was a cover—a con—and not one that I could afford to let slip. With May and Skye, it was easy. But _you_ …” He runs his knuckles down her cheek, tracing the curve of her face. “I would’ve wanted to really have you—to take you to _my_ bed and touch you with _my_ hands, not his. It was too much of a risk.”

“You’re trying to convince me of your sincerity by reminding me of how badly you fooled everyone?” she asks. “That’s an interesting tactic.”

He grins, because her tone is dry, but it’s not derisive. He’s winning her over, despite herself. “It’s the truth.”

“Is it?” she asks. “You abandoned your cover nearly two years ago. Why wait this long, if what you’re saying is true?”

“You wouldn’t have been receptive, before,” he says. “Not at first, not right after the uprising.” Not right after he nearly killed her and Fitz, but he’s not gonna be the one to bring that up. “And then…well. Things got messy, and then I had Kara.”

She straightens a little at Kara’s name—or, more likely, the way his voice softens over it.

“Was that real?” she asks.

“Very,” he says honestly.

“Then…”

“I lost Kara,” he tells her. It’s a deliberate echo of her words about Fitz, and it hits her just the way he means it to. “And there’s no chance of getting her back.” He has to stop for a second. (It’s deliberate, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine.) “She has nothing to do with this conversation.”

“All right,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

There’s compassion in her eyes—something she hasn’t directed his way in a long time. He smiles.

“You’re suspicious,” he says. “It’s understandable.” He evaluates her expression and decides to push her a little. “But you’re not as suspicious as you wanna be.”

“What?” she frowns.

He squeezes her thigh and watches her eyes drop to his hand—watches the realization of just how long she’s let him touch her, without comment or protest, dawn.

If she really doubted him as much as her questioning would suggest, there’s no way she would’ve been comfortable letting him touch her like this at all, let alone for so long. He can see that occurring to her, can see her remember that she cried on his shoulder earlier and let him hug her.

“Oh,” she says. “Well. I suppose I’m not, at that.” She stares down at his hand and touches it lightly, with just the tips of her fingers. “What is it you want from me, precisely?”

“I want everything you’re willing to give me,” he says. “If that’s just you working in my labs, fine. If that’s you sharing my quarters with me, even better. And if you want something in between, that’s fine, too.” He draws his hands away from her and sits back against the bench. “Ball’s in your court, Jemma. It’s up to you.”

She watches him for a long moment, and he keeps his face open and sincere. None of what he’s said is a lie.

“Let’s start with you getting the artifact out of the Playground,” she says finally, and twists to pick up the bear. “Assuming you can manage that, I’ll work in your labs and lead your scientists. If anything else comes from that…” She smooths her fingers over the bear’s fuzzy face. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He’s waited this long; he can wait a little longer. Still, maybe one more little push won’t hurt. “But, uh, can I ask a favor?”

“What sort of favor?” she asks, a little bit of suspicion creeping back into her expression.

He raises his hands. “Nothing major, I promise. It’s just…I’m HYDRA’s only head these days. Everyone who works for me works _for_ me.”

“That’s…generally how it works, yes,” she says.

“I expect respect from my people,” he says. “They’re all terrified of me.”

“Sensibly so,” she says tartly, and he has to smile.

“Very. But…” He shades his voice with self-deprecation. “The thing is, no one’s called me anything but _sir_ in…a really long time. I’m starting to forget I even _have_ a name. So, if it’s not too much trouble…you think you could call me Grant while we’re taking it one day at a time?”

Her eyes soften. “I think I can manage that…Grant.”

“Thank you, Jemma,” he says, careful to keep the satisfaction he’s feeling out of his voice. “Now, getting the rock’s gonna take some doing. You wanna come see my base, help me and my guys plan the break-out?”

She has to visibly steel herself before she does it, but she nods.

“Yes,” she says. “The sooner we get the artifact to a lab, the better.”

“Great.” He stands and hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “My Quinjet’s not far. Do heights still bother you?”

“I have worse fears now,” she says, which he decides not to point out isn’t actually a no. “I’ll be fine.”

She hugs the bear close to her chest when she stands, and he really can’t resist the urge to ask any longer.

Well, okay, that’s a lie. He _could_ resist the urge, he just doesn’t want to. The curiosity is killing him.

“So,” he says, as they head for the Quinjet, “What’s with the bear?”

Simmons, to his surprise, actually flushes a little.

“It’s silly,” she says, smiling ruefully. “But I’m used to having someone to speak to while I work. After I lost Fitz and left the Playground…” She shrugs. “A teddy bear seemed as good a listener as any.”

Now _that’s_ a blatant lie. There’s an element of truth to it—he’s sure she really has missed having Fitz to talk to, and maybe the bear did bring her some comfort—but that’s not at all why she’s got it.

He’s even _more_ curious now, and he doesn’t appreciate the lie, but he’ll let it go. They’re not at a place where he can insist on complete honesty. Not yet.

Let her think she’s gotten one over on him. They can come back to this later.

The look she gives him as the silence draws out just dares him to make fun of her, so he makes sure to make his smile conspiratorial instead of mocking. (Not that he’s in the mood to mock, anyway. Even if she weren’t lying, he spent eight months in a cell with no one but Coulson and, occasionally, Skye to talk to. He knows what desperation feels like.)

“Not gonna lie,” he says. “The bear’s probably a better conversationalist than a lot of my people.”

It surprises a laugh out of her. “That’s terrible, Grant.”

Markham, who’s waiting outside the Quinjet, visibly jolts at the use of Grant’s first name. Grant pats him reassuringly on the shoulder as he ushers Simmons up the ramp.

“Jemma,” he says. “This is Markham. He’s one of my best specialists. Markham, Jemma Simmons, the new head of our science department.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, giving Markham a smile.

He gives her a serious nod in return. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grant can see Simmons mentally assigning Markham to the _not a great conversationalist_ box, which is kind of hilarious. She has no idea that the guy’s just reeling over her easy familiarity with him—or, more likely, the way he didn’t shut it down.

“Pick a seat,” he offers, instead of correcting her impression. She’ll figure it out soon enough. “Would sitting in the back be easier for you?”

She darts a glance to the front compartment and grimaces, just a little. “Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says. “Markham, take the stick.”

“Yes, sir,” Markham agrees, and heads for the pilot’s seat. “Are we going straight back to base, sir?”

“Yeah,” Grant says. He takes a seat, leaving it up to Simmons to decide how close to sit, and grins when she takes the seat next to him. “No detours today. We’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said that you’re monitoring the Playground,” Simmons says, angling herself in her seat so her knees brush his thigh.

“I am,” he confirms.

“Do you know whether Mack lived?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and then—because he’s not going to pretend to be someone he’s not, not this time—adds, “I didn’t really care enough to check.”

“No,” she says softly, and looks down at her bear. “Neither did I.”

He rests a hand on one of her knees. Her skirt doesn’t cover them, and her skin is chilled beneath his touch—not surprising; it’s a cold day.

“Does it matter if he did?” he asks, shrugging his jacket off. A little smile tugs at her lips as he tucks it over her lap, and she murmurs a quiet _thank you_. “You know there’s not much chance we’re gonna get the rock out of the Playground without killing anyone, right?”

“I know,” she says. “But…it’s not the same. Not like personally pulling the trigger.”

There was a time she would’ve thought differently. But then, there was a time she would’ve sooner died than leave SHIELD, and by his count she’s done it three times now. People change.

But she’s obviously still at least a little squeamish, so he gives her a reassuring smile.

“We’ll find out,” he promises. “And, hey. Whether he’s dead or not, you don’t have to kill anyone else, okay?”

She smiles wryly. “Let me guess. I can leave that to you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You can.”

She stares down at the bear for a long moment before setting it aside, resolve settling over her face. She draws her legs up under her, tucks his jacket more firmly around them, and then cuddles into his side, hugging his arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

It’s a surprise.

“Thank you,” she says.

…People don’t change _that_ much—not so quickly. There’s no way she’s thanking him for promising to kill people.

“For what?”

“Sometimes we must take regrettable action in order to achieve a desired result,” she says, very quietly. “Knowing that doesn’t make the regrettable actions easier—simply more urgent.” She takes a deep breath, fingers digging into his arm. “It took me weeks to get up the nerve to go to the Playground. Even with Fitz trapped, even knowing that time might be of the essence…it took me weeks.”

Ah. That explains it. Regrettable action’s kind of his strong suit.

“You’re welcome,” he says, laying his hand over one of hers and squeezing. “And don’t worry. We’ll have Fitz out of there in no time.”

“Yes,” she says, resolved. “We will. No matter what it takes.”

Whatever this rock is, Grant owes it a serious thank you, because it’s got her exactly where he wants her.

“No matter what it takes.”


End file.
